Exactly As It Seems
by Lahel
Summary: Alex Rider did not take the death of his uncle Ian very well. He suffered a panic attack, and ever since then had an extremely weak immune system. He has abandonment issues, is thought of as a druggie by his schoolmates... It's lucky that he has a good friend in Tom Harris.


**No matter how good a girl I am, Santa never gave me Alex Rider.**

**It'll only be the first chapter that's like the book. I changed some small details as well to set the scene for future chapters, so forgive this one. So, the prompt is that Ian did actually die from a car crash, the Royal & General is really just a bank, and Alex is a boy with a bad immune system. No pairings. This will be an Alex/Tom Friendship thing.**

When the doorbell rings at three in the morning, it's never good news. Alex Rider was woken by the first chime. His eyes flickered open, but for a moment he stayed completely still in his bed, lying on his back with his head resting on the pillow. He heard a bedroom door open and a creak of wood as somebody went downstairs. The bell rang again, and he looked at the alarm clock glowing beside him. The security chain rattled as it was taken off the front door. Alex rolled out of bed and walked to the open window. The moonlight illuminated his body.

Alex was fourteen, with a lean physique. His fair hair was short, and quite messy from having just risen. His eyes were a serious brown. For a while he stood silently, hidden within the shadows, looking out. A police car was parked outside. From his window Alex could see the two men dressed in dark, ominous colours. The door opened and the porch light turned on.

"Mrs. Rider?"

"No. I'm the housekeeper. What is it? What's happened?"

"This is the home of Mr. Ian Rider?"

"Yes. "

"I wonder if we could come in... "

And Alex already knew. The police just stood there, awkward and unhappy. He could tell from the tone of their voices. Funeral voices... To him, that was what those voices sounded like. The sort of voices people use to tell you that someone close to you had died. He went to his door and opened it. He was able to hear the policemen talking in the hall, bu only a few words reached him. "... A car accident ... Called the ambulance ... Intensive care ... Nothing  
anyone could do ... So sorry. "

It was only hours later, sitting in the kitchen, watching as the gray light of morning bled slowly through the West London streets, that Alex could try to make sense of what had happened. His uncle -Ian Rider-was dead. Driving home, his car had been hit by a truck at Old Street roundabout and he had been killed almost instantly. He hadn't been wearing a seat belt, the police said. Otherwise, he might have had a chance. Alex thought of the man who had been his only relation for as long as he could remember. He had never known his own parents. They had both died in another accident, this one a plane crash, a few weeks after he had been born. He had been brought up by his father's brother and had spent fourteen years in the same terraced house in Chelsea. The two of them had never been close. Alex remembered the days he had waited for Ian to come home from work, only to be neglected for paperwork, dinner, or even just the telly. And the times Ian did pay attention to him... weren't very good, to say the least. They was no relation between him and Ian. It was almost impossible to imagine that he would never again see the man, but really, it wouldn't make much of a difference. Alex sighed, fighting against the sense of grief that was suddenly overwhelming over what could have been.

"Are you all right, Alex?" A young woman had come into the room. She was in her late twenties with a sprawl of red hair and a round, boyish face. Jack Starbright was American. She had come to London as a student seven years ago, rented a room in the house in return for light housework and baby-sitting duties and had stayed on to become housekeeper and one of Alex's closest companions. Sometimes he wondered what the Jack was short for. Jackie? Jacqueline? Neither of them suited her and although he had once asked, she had never said.

Alex nodded. "What do you think will happen?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"To the house. To me. To you. "

"I don't know. " She shrugged. "I guess Ian would have made a will, " she said. "He'll have left instructions. "

"Maybe we should look in his office. "

"Yeah. But not today, Alex. Let's take it one step at a time. "

The day dragged on. Though Alex hadn't gone to school, he secretly had wanted to. He much preferred escaping back into normal life, the clang of the bell, the crowds of familiar faces, instead of sitting here, trapped inside the house. But he had to be there for the visitors who came throughout the morning and the rest of the afternoon. There were five of them. A lawyer who knew nothing about any will but seemed to have been charged with organizing the funeral. A funeral director who had been recommended by the lawyer. A vicar-tall, elderly-who seemed disappointed that Alex refused to cry. A neighbor from across the road-how did she even know that anyone had died? And finally a man from the bank.

"All of us at the Royal and General are deeply shocked, " he said. He looked about thirty, wearing a polyester suit with a Marks & Spencer tie. He had the sort of face you forget even while you're looking at it and introduced himself as Crawley, from personnel. "But if there's anything we can do... "

"What will happen?" Alex asked for the second time that day.

"You don't have to worry, " Crawley said. "The bank will take care of everything. That's my job. You leave everything to me. "

The day passed. Alex killed a couple of hours knocking a few balls around on his uncle's snooker table and then felt vaguely guilty when Jack caught him at it. But what else was he to do? Later on she took him to a Burger King. He was glad to get out of the house, but the two of them barely spoke. Alex assumed Jack would have to go back to America. She certainly couldn't stay in London forever. So who would look after him? At fourteen, he was still too young to look after himself. His whole future looked so uncertain that he preferred not to talk about it. He preferred not to talk at all.

And then the day of the funeral arrived and Alex found himself dressed in a dark jacket and cords, preparing to leave in a black car that had come from nowhere surrounded by people he had never met. Ian Rider was buried in Brompton Cemetery on the Fulham Road, just in the shadow of the Chelsea soccer field, and Alex knew where he would have preferred to be on that warm Wednesday afternoon. About thirty people had turned up, but he hardly recognized any of them. A grave had been dug close to the lane that ran the length of the cemetery, and as the service began, a black Rolls-Royce drew up, the back door opened, and a man got out.

Alex watched him as he walked forward and stopped. Alex shivered. There was something about the new arrival that made his skin crawl. Gray suit, gray hair, gray lips, and gray eyes. His face was expressionless, the eyes behind the square, gunmetal spectacles, completely empty.

Perhaps that was what had disturbed Alex. Whoever this man was, he seemed to have less life than anyone in the cemetery, above or below ground. Someone tapped Alex on the shoulder and he turned around to see Mr. Crawley leaning over him.

"That's Mr. Blunt, " the personnel manager whispered. "He's the chairman of the bank. "

Alex's eyes traveled past Blunt and over to the Rolls-Royce. Two more men had come with him, one of them driving. They were wearing identical suits and, although it wasn't a particularly bright day, sunglasses. Both of them were watching the funeral with the same grim faces. Alex looked from them to Blunt and then to the other people who had come to the cemetery. Had they really known Ian Rider? Why had he never met any of them before? And why did he find it so difficult to believe that they really worked for a bank?

"He is a good man, a patriotic man. He will be missed. " The vicar had finished his graveside address.

Alex looked around, hoping to find Jack, but saw instead that Blunt was making his way toward him, stepping carefully around the grave.

"You must be Alex. " The chairman was only slightly taller than him. "My name is Alan Blunt, " he said. "Your uncle often spoke about you. "

"That's funny, " Alex said. "He never mentioned **you**. "

The gray lips twitched briefly. "We'll miss him. He was a good man. " Blunt's eyes, magnified by the thick lenses of his spectacles, lasered into his own, and for a moment, Alex felt himself pinned down, like an insect under a microscope.

"I hope we'll meet again, " Blunt went on. Then he turned and went back to his car.

Alex felt his heart beat. What did he know about his uncle, anyways? Nothing. Why didn't Alex know about Alan Blunt or any of the people who was at the funeral? How come he barely understood what his uncle even did? Why did he even care? The thrice-damned man had neglected him, did whatever the hell he pleased, was never there for him when Alex needed him... He started to hyperventilate. Someone rushed to his side- was that Jack?- and held him, but Alex was shaking thoroughly.

"Call an ambulance!" Jack called.

His parents were dead, his uncle was dead, and surely Jack would leave him too. Nobody cared, did they? If they did, they would not leave him all alone. With that happy thought, Alex fell out of consciousness. An ambulance came for him, and he was taken to the hospital.


End file.
